Things Yet Unseen
by Lyraeon
Summary: After walking in on her in the shower, Karkat can't get Terezi out of his head, no matter how hard he tries. Desperate times call for desperate measures. One-sided(?) Karezi.


**A/N:** You'd think switching fandoms would be enough to cure smutblock, but in the end, it was only enough to cure regular writer's block. Sorry guys, it has taken me untold months to get back into the swing of things. Unfortunately for anyone with me on author+, the Pokemon part of my brain hasn't caught up yet. But yeah. Point being, with this fic, I am finally back to writing smutfic. Woooo.

* * *

**Things Yet Unseen**  
_Lyraeon_

-o-o-

You know it's wrong. You know it's wrong, but here you are, away message on, pants around your ankles, bare ass on the plush foot rest Dave has insisted on adding to the collection of human furniture in your block, claws dangerously close to drawing blood from your thigh as you fight over whether or not to move your hand three lousy inches to the right.

It's her fault, you want to think. Her fault for not locking the ablution block door, her fault for showering in the middle of the sleep cycle, her fault for having the water up too loud to hear you knocking so you just thought someone left the water on again, her fault for not closing the goddamn curtain. Her fault for ditching you for that asshole human, for turning down your pitch advances since then, for never being around him either anymore until you see each other more in a day than both of you see her in a week.

But you know that thinking is even more wrong, is immature, is wrong on so many levels that if you could tie three minutes ago you to a chair and punch him in the face until he had less teeth than Sollux just for thinking it, you would. Those thoughts are just one more reason you are truly the scum of two universes, and the things you are seriously considering doing right now are enough to shoot up your rank to challenge a few dead universes too.

But she was just so damn gorgeous. You'd always figured she'd turn out hot - not that it would ever matter, because you're hopelessly horns-over-stubs in flush with her even if it's been a sweep since the last time you kissed her - but even before the game you had fantasies of her turning out looking like Aeonux Theron and the two of you running off to evade culling on some distant colony for a few sweeps. And maybe she wasn't quite there, if you were to be fully honest with yourself, but self-deceit has always been one of your finer skills and there was something so stunning about Terezi, naked as the day she pupated, face upturned to let the water blast across her horns, water tracing her modest curves in thick rivulets…. And in that instant you stood frozen in the doorway, unsure if you should warn her to close the curtain or just turn and leave, you're sure you saw the deep blush of teal where her legs met…

You groan, unable to tear your eyes away in the memory. Instead they linger, straining for any hint of motion, certain that beneath her sleek, taut stomach she must be as turbulent as you. When several seconds pass without any sign of her bulge or a curious hand, you let your mind travel back up her body - trying hard not to remember her too accurately, but certain all the same that you only knew about the LARPing scar on her left side from stories before today.

Your bulge has long since escaped from your sheath, the end twitching in frustration as it finds only cold air to grasp onto. You lick your too-dry lips, sink your teeth into your lower one, and think, ___fuck it, I'm going to die soon enough anyway, might as well spend another day as a lonely, pathetic asshole._

There's nothing careful about how you grab your bulge. You aren't trying to draw this out, or mimic how you think she'd do it - not that you haven't tried, but that was a different lifetime by now, a different reality where you still had a chance with her and weren't just torturing yourself by trying to imagine the unobtainable. Your hand wraps around your slick length with almost too strong a grip, top two fingers instinctively extended for your tip to wrap back around, and you pause only long enough to pull your mind's eye back away from her face before you start your slow, jagged strokes.

___Which is worse,_ you wonder, ___getting off to how she actually is, or some distorted, idealized fusion of things that aren't her and things you can't unsee? _You think about imagining her with bigger rumble spheres, even if you have always preferred them small like hers, if not flat all together, if only because it seems less disrespectful. But you can't seem to concentrate on wringing your writhing bulge properly and mentally photoshopping her at the same time, and instead your free hand is squeezing your leg, desperately wishing it could reach out and pull her close.

You open your eyes, gasping and trying to refocus your fantasy away from her, but you're horn-deep in this shit by now and your mind is threatening to rebel if you stop now. You can't remember feeling this wet before - your seat is fucked and you'll have to find an appropriate excuse to trash it before you see Dave again - and hastily you switch hands, tangling your right hand around your bulge so your left can try to dull the ache of your nook.

It's the damp slither of your engorged trollhood against your wrist as it desperately seeks more warmth that finally leads you to a compromise. If you can't pull your mind away from Terezi, you'll imagine parts of her you still haven't seen, rather than sullying the one brief image you have of most of her. The logic is probably broken somewhere, but it makes sense to your lustsopored mind, especially when you imagine the finger teasing its way into your slit is actually the tip of -

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

You have to lean forward and pull your hands away not to pail on the spot. "Terezi," you rasp, eyes clamped shut as you imagine her standing in front of you, her full length wiggling between her thighs, a gorgeous, shimmering, teal masterpiece of anatomy just beckoning you to come ride it. A few harsh gasps later, you finally chance reaching for your nook again, only to find your entrance so sopping that your fingers slip in before you have a chance to imagine her teasing your bulge with hers, or the sweet taste of her lips against your chapped ones. You don't delude yourself with thinking she'd coil with you - not the first time, at least. She'd like hearing you shout too much, like feeling your whole body squirm as her bulge churned deep inside you, deeper than your fingers can ever hope to go even as hunched over as you are now.

She'd show you at least some mercy though. You're flushed, after all - most of the time at least. Her hand, so much more lithe than yours, would wrap around you, and the angle would be all wrong because you've gone and gotten yourself used to your own damn touch, but her cooler skin would feel so amazing, and her thumb would tease the edge of your sheath when her hand slid that close to your body, and maybe even through her thicker skin the tip of your bulge wrapped around her wrist would be able to feel her pulse, and it would be just enough of a distraction from how good she felt writhing inside of you to keep you from blowing before she filled-

You groan, barely managing to pull a bucket from your inventory fast enough before the first pulse runs through you, wringing your fingers almost painfully inside you. You gasp, shout, finally manage her name, your voice hoarse as you spurt thick fluid through the mock nook of your fingers and into the pail below. Your real nook only squeezes harder still, trying to pull the bulge it thinks is fucking you deeper inside, and you wiggle your fingers as fiercely as you can think to, even as the heat is flooding out of your body through your bulge.

"'rezi," you groan again, panting for breath, doubled over with your elbows on your knees and your length wilting in your grasp. You don't have to look down at the bright red mess below you to know it must be an impressive amount, you can feel it in how exhausted you suddenly are, and you don't really feel like embarrassing yourself by confirming that. You grumble a little, using the cleanest part of the back of your hand to wipe the sweat from your forehead, but before you have a chance to bitch yourself out for being a disgusting asshole and flop over to sleep on the floor, you notice the sound of impatient foot-tapping behind you.

Your head whirls around even as you try desperately to pull your shirt down to preserve any dignity you might yet have, but it's clearly too late for that.

"T-terezi," you manage.

"Karkat," she trills from behind you, everything about her voice metallic and dangerous and knowing, but strangely free of anger, "if you were lonely, you could have just told me."

You find yourself stammering, trying to defend yourself uselessly; there's no way your whole corner of the room isn't candy red. "I- what? No. You… You saw?!"

"I didn't see anything, dummy," she assures you, with the hint of fatigue in her words that says that after nearly three sweeps she's finally starting to tire of that joke and those mixups. "But I ___heard _plenty, and frankly am insulted I was not invited to this pail party."

She plops down behind you, jean-clad knees framing your bare thighs, chin resting on your shoulder, still-damp hair brushing your ear, and suddenly you are the farthest from tired you can remember being.


End file.
